


beat a dead horse, why don't you.

by reddisk



Category: Homestuck, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Animal Death, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 17:28:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7854403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reddisk/pseuds/reddisk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a dead horse in the back of their truck.</p>
<p>This isn’t a metaphor or particularly abstract figure of speech. No, there’s definitely a horse crumpled up in the back of Boxcar’s pickup truck, and it’s definitely finished living.</p>
            </blockquote>





	beat a dead horse, why don't you.

There’s a dead horse in the back of their truck.

 

This isn’t a metaphor or particularly abstract figure of speech. No, there’s definitely a horse crumpled up in the back of Boxcar’s pickup truck, and it’s definitely finished living. 

 

Deuce is sitting alongside it despite the illegality and potential severity of the situation, kindly batting at the congealed blood smeared across its hide with a handkerchief. Slick is driving. Droog is in the passenger seat. Boxcars, despite being the aforementioned designated driver and owner of the vehicle, is squished somewhere between the pair of them with his arms crossed.

 

Droog blows smoke out the window, his hair billowing in the wind and hooded eyes narrowed. This hasn’t been a pleasant evening for him. There’s blood on his hands from handling that goddamn horse, it stained his sweatshirt, dried on the soles of his shoes. “Where are you going?” he asks.

 

“Use your brain,” responds Slick, and he offers a sudden jerk of the truck. There’s a distinct thump heard from the back known as Deuce.

 

“I’ve been using my brain for the last three and a half hours.” He has another drag, contemplating the act of blowing smoke in Slick’s face, deciding against it to spare Boxcars (for now). “I wasn’t the one to pick up after someone else’s mess.”

 

Slick takes another sharp turn in response. Undoubtedly not in the mood to clean up after someone else’s mistakes.

 

While the pieces of the story may just be clicking together, a drawn conclusion is only clouded further as Slick pulls out a teddy bear. It’s a ballerina, and it’s got a voice box. A squeeze earns a squawk: “I  _ love _ you!” says the bear.

 

“Oh, fuck off,” says Slick.

 

After fifteen minutes of exaggerated silence, Slick pulls into an unlit parking lot. Droog peers out of the window. Cemetary? Pet cemetery. A forty minute drive for an glorified patch of dirt.

 

“Here’s the plan.” Slick leans across the vehicle, effectively resulting in a push back from Boxcars. “Instead of doing the dirty work ourselves, we leave fuckin’ Secretariat on the doorstep, ding dong ditch, scram. Capiche?”

 

Droog offers a flat stare. “Do you have any ideas how many dumpsters there are within ten minutes of town?”

 

“We’re too fucking classy to go about leaving horses in dumpsters, and that’s that.”

 

Boxcars climbs out and gets to work carting the corpse to the door, much to Deuce’s chagrin. Droog is seventy two percent sure this isn’t how pet cemeteries work. Nonetheless, he’d rather not stretch this night out any thinner, so he keeps his thoughts to himself.

 

Slick’s forehead is pressed against the steering wheel. Apparently he’s just as frustrated about this escapade, despite it being less elaborate than some of their other schemes. Droog isn’t sympathetic. However, he does take a moment to admire his boss’s jawline.

 

Within a half hour they’re on their way back home. Dear, sweet Secretariat has been deposited, and Deuce has swapped positions with Boxcars. It’s much more comfortable to share the front seat of a car with someone who’s 5’4 rather than 6’5.

 

It’s unfortunate that they have to walk home. Boxcar’s owns the truck, and he’s denying the others the privilege to drive any further than they have for the past six hours so long as they refuse to pay for gas. While fair, it doesn’t stop Slick from kicking at the side and Droog from putting out his cigarette on the leather. Deuce only lives a block or two southwards. Slick and Droog are homebound in the opposite direction, and so they walk together, occasionally bumping shoulders in the dim streetlights.

  
  


“So,” begins Droog, and Slick feels his fingers twitch. He was hoping to avoid this.

 

“What?”

 

“Are you going to explain why we handled The Felt’s mess? Not to insinuate you care about anyone but yourself, of course.”

 

Slick could use a drink. He doesn’t smoke; certainly drinks like a fiend, but it’s too late to even bother sipping the bourbon under his mattress at home. He licks at his teeth before responding. “Leverage.”

 

“Not sure how hauling a corpse is blackmail.”

 

“Maybe you’d figure it out if you waited for me to finish, windbag.” They’re outside the front of Droog’s mansion now. Droog, known as Dmitri Dubov by those outside of their circle, is involved in the Russian mafia. They’re rich and they’re slimy. It’s fitting. Slick lives two blocks in the opposite direction, but he’d taken it upon himself to walk Droog home. “Not over the gang as a whole, just, y’know.” He leans against the railing. “Her _.” _

 

Ah, yes,  _ her.  _ Droog  pulls another cigarette and lights it. “You’re a dope.”

 

“Can it, kid.”

 

“Older than you.”

 

Against it all, they get along. The dynamic duo within a questionable quatrio. 

 

Droog offers Slick his smoke as he always does, Slick shakes his head no as he always does, and Droog continues trying not to blow smoke in his face. It’s almost scripted. Slick’s hair is thick and unruly, a sharp contrast to Droog’s neat part, and they touch elbows against the fencing on the front porch.

 

“You like her, huh?”

 

“I wouldn’t say that.”

 

Droog stares off across the manicured lawn, eyebrows drawn together tight. It’s infuriating to think about his best friend dry humping Snowman’s hip, but their rivalry has dated back to what he presumes to be the dawn of time. Not much to do about that. Not much to do about how Slick is sweet on Paint, either. What does Droog get? A faux-magazine of grey ladies.

 

While he preserves the aura of a sophisticated gentleman whenever possible, his fuse is about as short as Slick’s, leading to a sudden and heavy-handed kiss; something Slick jumps at but gradually slides into. Once they pull away, their mouths are sort of red and Slick can taste the nicotine on Droog’s breath.

 

“Be seeing you, Jack.”

 

Slick has trouble thinking up a witty response in time, so he just spits Droog’s name back at him. “Dmitri.”   
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> hope u enjoyed? i dont write these dudes often, yknow how it is. catch me @hal900 on tumblr


End file.
